


hearthboard

by Autodidact



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adultery, Age Difference, Ageplay, Author is trans, BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, Gangbang, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Omorashi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Size Kink, Traditional Corporal Punishment, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, Triple Penetration, gender euphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25264762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact
Summary: Jonah likes direction, for having it means he doesn't have to second-guess himself. Correct his speech and his bearing. Wonder if he's doing the things correctly that others have been learning since boyhood.Jonah likes order. Rules and guidelines. He likes the world to make sense, even if that's in the space of a room; the span of an evening. The collar goes on, and he knows what is expected of him.And Jonah likes being the centre of attention.
Relationships: Jonah Magnus/Mordechai Lukas/Robert Smirke/Jonathan Fanshawe, Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus, Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	hearthboard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stacicity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/gifts).



> This is the Desert Bus of fanfiction, but instead of driving itself off the road it keeps veering into ageplay territory. Nobody actually gets called “Daddy” though. And rest assured that everyone is above the age of consent during all of the sexual situations described.
> 
> The words cock/dick, cunt/slit, and chest are used to refer to transmasculine anatomy.
> 
> Dedicated to Elsie ([Stacicity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity)), whose works are a constant source of inspiration. Save some writing talent for the rest of us, why don’t you.

Jonah is warming himself by the fire. He can feel the comfort on his body and the glow upon bare skin: his feet, his hands, his back.

The gentlemen are talking across the room. Robert and Jonathan are chatting. This is his first time meeting Dr. Fanshawe, and he’s asking him how he knows Jonah, who invited him out for the evening. He is Mr. Magnus’ physician, he says, and has been for the past year and a while, if memory serves.

Robert Smirke likes to host parties. He has a client base large enough for him to do so, and a circle of acquaintances large enough to fill his home when he desires the company. He often does, Jonah has been learning during his stay at Robert’s residence—a temporary arrangement while he awaits the beginning of his final university year. Robert is a hard worker and a socialite both, and those are things that Jonah can learn from and appreciate.

There is a cushion under Jonah’s knees. His wrists are bound behind him with coils of soft rope wound around them, over and over. Tied by practiced hands.

Some of Robert’s gatherings are normal: dinners, card games, and the like. Others are most decidedly not, because the advantage of having a private space means being able to facilitate all manner of sinful acts under his roof. Often, one guest or another would volunteer himself to satiate the appetites of the others, be they sexual hungers or wants of the more sadistic kind.

Jonah used to attend but not participate. Content to watch, in his own words. But keen-eyed Smirke saw the way he regarded the centrepieces and the curiosity not to slake himself on what they offered but to _experience_ that for himself.

Smirke asked him, “Why don’t you?”

Jonah answered, “I couldn’t possibly.”

And several hours and drinks and good-byes later, Jonah explained why.

Mordechai Lukas—an occasional guest at these events—already knew, of course. He had known Jonah from childhood and by a different name. He was the one who had offered sanctuary when Jonah torched his old life and made himself anew. When he’d asked Mordechai if he would call him Jonah, he obliged. Mordechai sheltered him and clothed him how he wanted to be clothed and still did not ask questions. Jonah paid him back, in little ways and large ones, but he still feels he owes a great debt to Mr. Lukas.

So, naturally, when Smirke offered to arrange an intimate gathering of the most open-minded and discreet, Mr. Lukas was the first name on Jonah’s list.

At first, it was the three of them. Things were arranged like the other events, with atmosphere and liquor and socializing, and Jonah offered himself when they saw fit to indulge. Jonah learned about his limitations and learned much more about what he _liked._

Robert knows a leatherworker who made a rich brown collar for Jonah’s neck and a harness to the measurements of Jonah’s hips. Robert knows a woodworker who dabbles in the creation of innovative little toys. Jonah has one of them inside his arse now, a lacquered thing with a flared base to stretch him out. He has another sunk deep in his cunt, strapped into the harness which, in turn, is buckled around a pillow between Jonah’s legs.

Mordechai doesn’t much like to talk, but Robert does. Which is where Dr. Fanshawe comes in.

Dr. Fanshawe knew about Jonah’s secret because Jonah had little choice but to share it: first in his office, with his chest left unbound from the force of his rattling coughing fits. When he’d removed his heavy coat he’d threatened the doctor into silence. It wasn’t necessary, Jonah found out over subsequent treatments: Dr. Fanshawe did not refer to Jonah as being anything other than male, even when seeing parts of him that were clearly otherwise. He seemed _comfortable_ with doing so, and that was odd, until Jonah noted the truths of the doctor’s figure, so carefully concealed by the selection of clothing that such a thing would go unnoticed had Jonah not been using those selfsame tricks for years now; of his smooth face; of his long lashes. And Jonah _knew,_ and he, being bold, told him as much. And then Jonah sent a letter inviting him over to Robert Smirke’s residence.

Robert and Dr. Fanshawe are talking. Mordechai is only occasionally glancing in Jonah’s direction. Jonah has been instructed to be a living sculpture, so this is what he’s doing. And above all else, he has been instructed _not_ to come.

Jonah has been positioned like this for a while, and his posture is suffering for it. He has largely given up trying to attract attention to himself by way of making eye contact with the guests and has been staring at the patterns in the rug instead, shoulders rounded forwards and spine in a similar hunch. The creaking of furniture draws his eyes towards the sound, and he watches as Mordechai rises with his walking cane in hand and makes his way over to Jonah’s side. 

Mordechai is frowning at him. He uses the cane to push a shoulder back, a chin up—correcting his posture. Jonah rearranges himself as directed.

“Is he quite all right, Mr. Lukas?” Fanshawe asks. The newcomer has been shooting looks of concern his way all evening, which, while unnecessary, isn’t altogether unexpected.

“Yes. He’s used to being ignored.” Mordechai stares down at him—hollow, severe. He does not need to speak loudly to be heard over the hearth’s crackle. “Isn’t that right, Magnus?”

Jonah is far too used to being pinned under Mordechai’s stare to be intimidated by that alone. He knows better, however, than to mouth off, and so he remains silent. It doesn’t stop him from getting whacked in the thigh by Mordechai’s cane—not a hard hit, just a startling one, but the flinch and resultant shifting of his hips on the dildo get him breathing through his teeth.

“Yes sir,” he answers.

“And do you like being ignored?”

“Yes sir,” Jonah says, not because he _does_ but because this is what is expected of him.

Mordechai does not find that as pleasing as Jonah thought he would, and he strikes him again on his thigh opposite. “Liar.”

But he doesn’t stop there—before Jonah can get his composure back, Mordechai leans down, seizes him by the hair, and drags him upwards. Jonah goes with the pull, rising further up on his knees, and goes with the downwards tug to sink back down on the wooden shaft. Does it again. And again. Mordechai is deliberate about it, methodical, and it is so easy to anticipate when the next directional change will come that Jonah begins to rise and fall without needing the physical guidance. “Keep at it,” Mordechai instructs, and lets him go.

And Jonah does. He follows the pace Mordechai set for him without needing to focus on it, sparing his attention for the unyielding hardnesses, both constant and mutable, inside of him. He is _full_ and he is trembling.

Lukas returns to his seat to watch the spectacle; all of them do. Smirke reminds him that he’s not allowed to come, and a flicker of hurt shows up in Jonah’s brow as he nods his understanding. Fanshawe expresses concern for Jonah’s well-being as his sounds morph into something more pained, but Smirke reassures him that he’s doing well and that he need not worry.

More than the flames and more than the slide and catch of friction, it is the attention that heats Jonah’s skin and pulls a flush up to its surface. Against his better judgement he starts putting more force into rocking down upon the dildo—at least until he’s warned away from it by a disapproving sound from Mordechai. And he tries to be satisfied with what he gives himself, but he _wants,_ and he focuses on Fanshawe and forms his mouth around a ‘please.’

Fanshawe gets up then, to come over and pull up an ottoman to sit on. Leaning in with an elbow on his knee, he brushes some of Jonah’s hair away from his forehead, tucks it behind his ear. Scratches at where the side of his jaw meets neck with blunted, serviceable fingernails. Tells Jonah, confession-quiet, “You’re doing so well. You can hold on.”

Jonah whines, high in his throat (and that in itself brings more heat into his cheeks, from embarrassment this time), and he makes an honest effort to do it. He _does._ But Fanshawe’s hand coming to rest upon his shoulder is the weight that tips the scales, and Jonah bites his lip to silence himself and closes his eyes so that no one can see them roll back in ecstasy. His thighs are quaking and he struggles to maintain his even pacing.

The sudden quiet makes Smirke suspicious, and he speaks up. “Well, Doctor?” He asks, swirling the brandy around in his glass. “In your medical opinion, do you believe our dear Jonah has peaked?”

Jonathan looks at Jonah’s face, scrunched up under the effort of keeping himself in check. Listens to the pacing of his breathing, hard and through his nose. Looks at his cunt, slick and pulsing around the shaft in a rhythm distinct from the thrusting one. He kneels, reaches out, and puts firm pressure right on Jonah’s cock.

Jonah _keens_ and comes _again,_ sharper this time. After that there’s little point in trying to hide it, and Jonah bucks into his touch, open-mouthed and panting. Jonathan, chuckling, keeps his hand in place for Jonah to rock against. “If not before, then he certainly has now.”

Mordechai looks a measure less amused than the serenely-smiling Smirke, and certainly less than Jonathan. He mutters something about having to do everything himself as he heads over towards the fire. “Up,” he commands. Jonah does not move so Mordechai does it for him with a hand in his hair once more, wrenching him up to his feet. “ _Up,_ I said.”

Jonah is unsteady and bleary-eyed as he rises and is unceremoniously dragged over to the settee. The wind gets knocked out of him by his stomach hitting one of Mordechai’s knees when the man sits and pulls Jonah down across his lap. There’s not a whole lot of struggling to be done with his hands still bound, nor does he feel inclined to attempt it while he’s shivering from orgasmic aftershocks—he could very well injure himself on the edge of the table if he tried, so he doesn’t.

“What were you told to do, Jonah?” Smirke asks, sitting next to Mordechai. He snaps his fingers near Jonah’s chin to get his attention. “Look at me.”

Jonah has to shift in Mordechai’s lap to manage it, but he does. His voice, like his posture, is unsteady. “To kneel. And not to come.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.” Jonah swallows, then adds, “Twice.”

“Well, at least he’s being honest.” Smirke reclines in his seat and gestures towards Mordechai in invitation. “As you please, then.”

Being that it _does_ please him, Mordechai holds Jonah steady as he smacks him open-palmed across the backside. He does it again and again, and the pace he sets blooms heat across Jonah’s flesh; sends sparks up his spine every time he tenses up around the plug still in his arse. Jonah bucks and struggles a little, mostly just for show—compared to Mordechai’s solid bulk and solemn strength, he feels childlike. Small.

Jonah wonders if Mordechai has ever spanked his children like this. He’d never heard or witnessed it when he was staying in his home, for that would require an active interest in their conduct—and that, he knew, Mordechai lacked. He doesn’t take much of an interest in his family in general.

If he were to tell Mrs. Lukas that he’s been fucking her husband for years, _under their roof, even,_ he doubts she’d be surprised.

The sound of Mordechai’s hand connecting with his arse is the loudest thing in the room, though not by very much. Jonah cannot choke down his grunts and moans: pained or pleasured, hard to tell. Mordechai prefers him quiet, Jonah remembers, when he feels a hand around the front of his collared throat, supporting his fragile neck. That in itself warms his blood—he’s always had a peculiar relationship with fear.

All the breath goes out of Jonah’s chest when he realizes that Mordechai has paused. He’s spreading his legs and cupping a hand over his sex and his _wrist_ is _on the plug,_ pressing it into him. Jonah can hardly take it, and he whimpers out a plea.

“ _Mordechai—_ ”

“Hush.” The hand around his throat squeezes, forcing him to do so. “It’s clear he likes this far too much.”

Smirke clucks his tongue in disapproval. “That won’t do. Do you think he’s in need of something heavier to learn his lesson?”

“Mm.”

“Well, you know where I keep my things. Would you like me to untie him?”

“No.” Jonah feels the wedding ring slide and catch on his lips as Mordechai withdraws his hand. He manhandles Jonah down to lay across Smirke’s lap in his absence and wipes his slick hand on his breeches. Reconsiders. “Or yes, actually,” he says, looking for Smirke’s answering nod before he goes to fetch what he will.

Jonathan takes up Mordechai’s seat to come inspect Jonah’s backside, pinked and stinging as it is. Wherever he touches, fleeting white imprints trail behind.

“You’re wondering if he’s all right again,” Robert observes. “Rest assured, he is.” He runs a merciful hand through Jonah’s hair, scratching at his scalp as if undoing the damage Mordechai had earlier caused. “The boy’s behaving rather well today, all things considered. I think he’s trying to make a good impression on you.”

Jonah squirms in Robert’s lap to showcase his discomfort, but Robert ignores it. “Or perhaps he’s simply eager. Our harlot won’t be satisfied with wood alone.” Robert turns Jonah’s head to look at him, taking in the flush and the scowl, but he continues to address Jonathan. “I’m sure you’ll have the chance to get your dick wet before long.”

“Don’t be crass,” Jonah mutters.

“What an _interesting notion,_ coming from the only nude one here.”

Jonah playfully tries to nip at Robert’s fingers, but he withdraws his hand before any of Jonah’s teeth can graze him. He grins. “Ah, there’s our little hallion. Are you going to behave if I untie you?” He asks, fingers already at the knots.

“You’re going to untie me anyway, because you are an _excellent_ host, Robert.”

Robert digs an elbow in between Jonah’s bowed shoulder blades, forcing his chest to flatten under the pressure between that and his thigh. “That’s ‘Mister Smirke’ to you, tonight.”

“Understood, Mr. Smirke,” Jonah wheezes out. Having gotten what he wanted, Smirke lets up on the pressure and begins working on the ropes around Jonah’s wrists. “I will… endeavour to be a gracious guest.”

“For once in your life,” Robert says, and Jonah laughs to that.

The heavy stride of boots on the floor herald Lukas’ return. A clearing of the throat; a weighty, “Magnus.”

Jonah sighs, pleased and relaxed, as the bonds around his wrists are loosened and removed. He stands up, turns, and inclines his head to Smirke and Fanshawe each in turn. “Gentlemen,” he says, smile wicked and unrepentant. And then, at last, he goes.

He’s inspecting and massaging the rope burn out of his wrists when he steps up to Mordechai, meaning that the tawse is the first thing he sees. A long thick strip of leather, split halfway down its length to form two tails, rounded off at the corners. Heavy and solid. A fitting tool for Mordechai. “Mr. Lukas,” he says, awaiting instruction.

“Hands,” and Lukas demonstrates. Palms up, parallel to the floor, one laid atop the other.

Jonah hears and Jonah’s hands follow. Though he does not close his eyes, Jonah is not prepared for the force of the strike when it comes. It lands heavier than he anticipated, and the catch of leather striking Jonah’s ropemarks on the inside of his wrist knocks his hands out of their position and gets him hissing through his teeth.

Mordechai does not react beyond the raising of an eyebrow. “Again. Have you never been hit before?”

Giving his hand a final shake to dissipate the burn, Jonah raises them back up. This is not remotely pleasurable, but he supposes that’s entirely the point. “With a _belt,_ yes.”

Mordechai scoffs. Cracks down on his palm again. His aim is truer and Jonah does not flinch away this time. “Better. Come, bend over the desk.”

The promise in that instruction sets Jonah’s eyes to glittering, and he goes to the writing table willingly. For now, he moves the chair out of the way, leans over, and puts his elbows down on top of it. Serenely folds his stinging hands.

Jonah’s back is bowed in a deliberately attractive arch when Mordechai comes to ease the plug out of him. “It would be a shame to ruin your hole with this before I get the opportunity,” he says, and _oh,_ that’s a promise and a half.

Jonah looks sidelong at the other members of this gathering: at Smirke, offering the cigar box out Fanshawe’s way. It would be funny to an outside observer, he thinks, for a man to be beaten like a schoolboy in the same room as a social evening in, with none of the guests thinking anything of it. This is novel for Dr. Fanshawe and he seems a touch skittish to be playing witness to such brash depravity, but that is quite alright. Smirke likes to spend time making the newcomers feel at ease in his home, and Jonah is sure that with a bit more tobacco in his lungs and drink in his blood, he will begin to relax.

Jonah isn’t. Jonah _cannot,_ after the first searing line is drawn across his backside. His feet stay planted but his knees buckle, instinct to back away warring with his self-control. He does yell, though—a bark of shock and hurt coiling up from his diaphragm to lash the open air. Mordechai isn’t starting him off easy, it seems.

In the pause between this strike and the next, Smirke comments, “Dramatic today, aren’t you? Surely this cannot be the first time you’ve been bent over the instructor’s desk.”

Jonah grimaces—turns his head away so Smirke doesn’t have to see it. He does not need to be reminded that his upbringing was different than that of his peers. Not now, as he’s staring at the curious indentations the ropes have left upon his thin wrists. Not ever, when he is exceptionally aware of his own nudity.

Mordechai goes over the line of red spanning his cheeks with a cool finger, and Jonah quickly stills his shiver. “Five lashes, I think. Ten if you cannot take them gracefully.”

The bottom of Jonah’s stomach drops out at the challenge. But still, he says, “Understood, sir,” and steels himself for the coming blows.

Mordechai lights Jonah up with stinging force, over and over. The snap of the tawse lands loud enough to rustle the pages under their paperweight, though that could also be the work of Jonah’s strained breathing. His bitten-back grunts exist in the same space as the impacts: if he cannot choke them down completely, then he can at least allow this to mask them. It burns. It beats down Jonah’s diffidence under the strength of _being;_ of sensation so sharply overwhelming that there is no room in his consciousness to acknowledge his body beyond the searing ache.

Five times, and a pause. The dawning realization that no more hits are coming bolster his relief.

Lukas’ hand squeezing and massaging out his cheek is a dull, raw torment, but that’s a pain he is quite able to handle. Mindful of his given instructions, Jonah does not groan. Open-mouthed, he breathes, and focuses on the point of cool metal digging into bruise-warm skin. The ring, again—and he smirks, just a little, at the thought that Mordechai has most certainly never done _this_ to his family.

“Good lad,” Mordechai tells him, and Jonah feels _validated._

Jonah is led by way of soft instruction back over to the others. Jonathan pours him a large glass of water and pesters him to drink it, which he does. Robert spends the time undoing his trousers and asking Jonah to climb into his lap. “Yes, hands on my shoulders, that’s a dear. Now sink down nice and easy— _easy,_ I said! Ah, _there_ you go. Good, Jonah. Well done.”

Robert turns his head to kiss one of Jonah’s smooth, pale forearms. He animates Jonah up and down on his cock with his hands under his smooth, pinked thighs. Jonah leans in to sigh into his mouth and kiss him, because he wasn’t told not to.

Mordechai slicks his fingers with oil and eases them into where Jonah was empty. Fills him up, slow and inevitable. Mordechai likes the way Jonah’s breath catches at the burn.

Jonathan likes the wince on his face, and he plants himself on the settee to take him by the chin and stare. “May I?” He asks, unsure of whose permission he is seeking. Before any spoken answer can come, Jonah’s lips are on his and his tongue is in his mouth and his breath is hot upon his face and it’s too-much, too-quick. So Jonathan wrenches him away by his hair, twisting his grip to tug at the roots, and Jonah moans something wholly devilish instead of crying out in pain.

“Not much of one for kissing, are you, Dr. Fanshawe?” Jonah taunts. Fucks himself down harsh onto Smirke’s cock just to make himself gasp.

Jonathan does not bother answering, because his teeth are occupied with sinking into Jonah’s neck. And, for the first time tonight, Jonah _screams._ Jonathan pins him like a hunter; like a wildcat snapping and piercing the neck of its prey until, at last, it gives up the fight and stills. Jonah isn’t struggling but he is still being moved—or, rather, he’s being held in space while Smirke grunts and bucks up into his clenching body. Jonathan does not let him go until there are tears beading in his eyes. With one last spiteful show of force, Jonathan’s teeth press harder, and the release of them releases the tension in Jonah’s lungs, in his arse, in his cunt.

“Lukas, would you mind?” Smirke asks, and Lukas nods. Withdraws his hand and allows Smirke’s dick to take its place, driving up into Jonah’s ready hole. 

“Remember,” Lukas rumbles, “You are not to come without permission.”

Jonathan is licking over the terrible mark on his neck and he is a sheath for Robert’s cock and he holds on fiercely to the man’s shoulders. His face contorts with effort and he shudders. Tries. “Please. _Please,_ Robert.”

Robert’s fingers claw into Jonah’s arse and it’s not enough to scratch him but it is quite enough to make him yowl. The clench around Robert is delightful to at least _one_ of them. “That isn’t what I told you to call me.”

Lukas, who is cleaning off his hands, scoffs. “And he said he was going to be a gracious guest.”

“Hmph. Doctor, what do you think?”

Jonathan’s lips curl into a smile. Jonah’s cunt is free and easily takes the fingers he feeds to it. “I’ll be able to feel it if he does.” He hooks them there, pressing hard as if trying to touch them to his thumb, placed unerringly over his cock. Jonathan practically picks him up like that and Jonah rises with him, whimpering all the while.

“Perfect. Now _behave,_ Jonah. _Earn it.”_ And with that, Robert takes him by the hips and fucks him as he pleases, helped along by Jonathan.

Jonah tucks his face into the crook of Smirke’s neck, drying his eyes on his shirt collar as he hangs on for dear life. Smirke is not easy on him and Jonathan is _worse_ —that thumb cutting into his cock stings worse than the tawse did, were he to compare. Jonah feels as a tool; a hearthboard, dug into and rubbed raw and used to spark an ember. Used to spark an orgasm, and Robert spilling into him does not relieve the burn of it.

Though the room is loud with exertion and Robert smells like smoke and sweat, it takes an honest effort for Jonah to ground himself. His hips roll with fading rhythm, shifting to alleviate the sting of Jonathan’s cruel attentions. Jonah is taken up into cool broad hands, and into steady hands, and he is maneuvered off of Robert’s lap to lay face down and arse up on the settee. He expects to be taken like that and braces himself accordingly.

Someone—it doesn’t matter who, to Jonah—says, “With an arse that loose, he’s just going to drip all over the furniture. Stay.”

He is undeniably exposed and has been all evening, but he feels it more than ever now. Jonah does not hide his face or balk at the eyes he can feel upon him.

Someone—Robert, breathless and slightly giddy for it—says, “Would you like a go at him next, Dr. Fanshawe? He’s going to be too loose to enjoy once Mr. Lukas has his way.”

Head pillowed on his arms, Jonah doesn’t see the signs of Fanshawe’s mortification, but that doesn’t keep it from carrying into his voice. “Ah—no, I’m quite all right, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Robert asks.

Though physically worn down, Jonah’s mind is sharp, and he remembers why that is: that Jonathan is a man of the same variety as him—and if not that, then something similar enough to have made him freeze when Jonah had broached the topic in his office. “I could use my mouth on you, if you like,” Jonah murmurs, because he doesn’t much care exactly what’s in Dr. Fanshawe’s trousers at the moment. Anything would be nice.

“I don’t much like being undressed in the company of strangers, I’m afraid.”

Jonah stops running his tongue over his lips and rises up on his hands. Keeps a deep arch in his back for fear of dripping on the upholstery. He looks across the room, at his harness and the wooden cock, laying impotently on its side where it’s still wrapped around the pillow. “Mm, fair enough. You could borrow my cock,” and he gestures to it with his chin. “It would fit—your hips are trimmer than mine, I think.”

“And our Jonah does look _marvellous_ with his lips wrapped around one,” Robert adds.

Jonah turns to regard Smirke over his shoulder. “I’m surprised you haven’t had me do that yet this evening.”

“You’ve already had enough trouble with restraint,” and Smirke pats him on the bare arse, sending a wave of renewed heat all across it. To Fanshawe, he asks, “And did he finish, by the by?”

“Mm? Oh, no. I don’t believe so.” Fanshawe is distracted by getting up and going over to retrieve the apparatus. “If you’re sure, Jonah.”

“I’m the one who offered, Dr. Fanshawe.” Jonah lowers himself back down on his elbows, offering up the view. “After all, I am attempting to be a _gracious guest._ ”

While Robert goes to walk Jonathan through the particulars of putting on the harness, Mordechai comes over to take his place. And because Jonah is that close and looking _that_ tempting, he thumbs over his hole to watch him tense and licks him, slit-upwards, all the way to where he can push both thumbnail and tongue inside of him. Jonah shows his appreciation with a shuddering groan and relaxes into the contact.

“Ready for me, Jonah?” Mordechai rumbles, staying close.

Jonah, more than ready, laughs. “Why are you still dressed, Mr. Lukas?”

“Terrible,” he tells him, and smacks him on the arse for his cheek. Jonah’s chuckle shows he enjoys that far too much for it to be any sort of deterrent.

Mordechai leaves him be to unselfconsciously undress while Jonathan remains fully clothed in Jonah’s harness. Jonah has a breath to himself to stretch his spine and shoulders, checking in with how his body’s doing. Sore, still. He’s going to have bruises, he knows. His arse is going to be a wreck tomorrow: Mordechai’s cock is thick enough to do that on its own, even before he’d had the piercings put in. Jonah likes them, because he likes to suffer, and he enjoys Mordechai’s enjoyment of that fact.

They’re probably going to put him on the floor and carpet, Jonah thinks. His knees will complain, but he is young, as he’s been told when he’s protested it before. They’ve been at this for a while—Jonah kneeling by the fire had been a while in and of itself—and he could use a minute to relieve his bladder, but he does not ask to be excused. He knows that if he did, his request would not be granted.

Once Jonathan’s ensemble is assembled and he’s seated in the armchair, Jonah is directed to kneel at his feet. He preens for him a bit, curving his spine and flicking the hair out of his vibrant eyes so he may see and be seen in turn. Jonah nestles his face in between Jonathan’s spread legs and starts off as he often does when handling a flesh-and-blood cock: by taking it in hand, thumbing over the slit (which this particular toy does have), and leaning in to mouth over where Jonathan’s balls would be. Jonah inhales, and all he gets is leather and linseed and rosewood, but that in itself is nice. So he turns the smile in his eyes up to meet Jonathan’s _adorably_ lost look, and starts to kiss and lick up the artificial length.

Jonah knows that the presentation is the most important aspect to this. He knows this because of memories where he’s been in Jonathan’s place with Mordechai in his. Mordechai, who was frankly _unfairly_ talented at devouring his cunt, had taken to it more than Jonah had expected—not that he’d really known what to expect when he’d never observed Mordechai servicing another man before. Mordechai was actually _enthusiastic_ —even receptive to being guided and moved.

And, on one of those occasions, the spectacle of it had been enough to set him off wholly untouched: not a _strong_ release, but notable in that it had happened. Mordechai had pulled the whole contraption down far enough to get his mouth on Jonah’s real cock before the aftershocks could fade, and he’d struggled, surprised, against the leather wrapped around his thighs and Mordechai’s broad hands holding him down. In return, Jonah pinned him to the bed and, with fierceness and vigour, reduced him to a shaking mess under the intensity of his teeth and throat and hands.

That had been a good day, all told.

Jonah sinks down on the wooden shaft as Mordechai begins to sink into him. He catches the taste of himself here, tongue pressing the cockhead up against the roof of his mouth, as he holds his breath and bears down. Mordechai feeds his oil-slicked length into Jonah, measure by careful measure, and he’s breathing through his nose too—Jonah can hear it. Jonah reworks the angle and swallows Jonathan’s cock and his eyes roll into the back of his head. Mordechai’s hand strokes down his spine and he shudders, flinches, inhales. It’s a lot.

Jonathan wants to move his hips and Jonah lets him. He wants to stroke Jonah’s cheek and he lets him. “You don’t have to be gentle with me,” Jonah says. Smirks, chuckles. “You weren’t before.” His shoulder aches. His cunt aches.

“And _we_ won’t be,” Robert adds. He is kneeling on the floor now, fingers in Jonah’s curls, dipping into his slit. He sinks a couple of them inside and Jonah shudders. Shudders more when Mordechai starts to fuck him proper.

Jonah groans around the cock in his mouth, cheeks hollowed out. He whines at Smirke stroking along his insides, pressuring him where he is so, _so_ full already. “Robert,” he chokes. He is not acknowledged. “Mr. Smirke, sir,” he tries, and hears a hum back. “Please stop.”

“Oh?” Smirke hears the strain in his tone and knows that if Jonah meant it, he would be using other words. Makes a sound of interest and asks Lukas to pause, which he does, buried deep. Smirke’s fingers note the texture of Jonah’s walls; feel _through_ them; touch Mordechai. “Hah, I can feel your piercings.”

Jonah clenches down, panting. At the moment, he does not find that amusing. “ _Sir,_ I’m afraid that if you continue, I’m going to piss myself.” He stares down at the upholstery to spare himself being seen, ruddy-cheeked from embarrassment.

“ _Are_ you now,” Smirke says, and the grin inside it sets Jonah’s teeth on edge. He turns his wrist; jabs his fingers into Jonah’s front wall.

Jonah suppresses a scream. Mordechai rolls his hips; snaps them back in. His hips colliding with the budding bruises on his arse get Jonah to actually do it. His breath stutters; catches in his throat. _“Yes, damn you, I am.”_

Smirke does not relent, and laughing, says, “What a _rude_ little boy you are. Dr. Fanshawe, would you mind doing something about that wicked mouth of his?”

“Certainly.” Jonah looks up at Jonathan because he is made to, the fist in his hair tugging, then yanking him when he offers resistance. Jonathan guides his cock back in, past his lips; tells him to stay. Jonah bristles, then whines, then stays put as Jonathan fucks his mouth and Mordechai fucks his arse and Robert fucks his cunt.

Jonah cannot ask for permission to come like this, nor is he able to plead again for Robert to stop—he’s made himself quite clear, and Robert willfully ignoring his request must mean that he doesn’t mind the idea of a mess upon his carpet. And a number of tense and twitching moments later, Jonah does not disappoint in that regard: Robert is covered to the wrist with Jonah’s release, and it sprays across his belly and his thighs and soaks into the fibres under his knees. Robert does not stop ramming his bladder with his fingers until he’s absolutely certain he’s run dry. Jonah is fairly sure he’s crying from the mortification of it all.

“There you go, Jonah,” Robert croons. Withdraws his hand at last and gives his cock a squeeze on its departure. “Very good. Isn’t that better?”

Jonah is pretty much nodding already, being made to bob his head on Jonathan’s cock, but he answers with a reluctant, affirmative hum. It _is_ better. Now that he isn’t constantly clenching to hold everything in, he notes how overworked his rim is, rubbed raw by the piercings. He’s been worked up to this all evening, treated with care and with patience, and now that he has the chance to fall into the beat and the drag and the slide Jonah _shudders,_ because it’s invasive but feels _right,_ in a way. An old sensation that Jonah keeps coming back to, time and time again. He wouldn’t say it’s comforting, exactly, but at least Mordechai’s cock is familiar. Safe.

Mordechai is allowed to take up a space inside his trust because he’s earned it; has been earning it for years. This was not always the case.

Jonah remembers being on his back in Mordechai’s bed, feeling fragile in his nudity, watching Mordechai undress without ceremony. And he’d laughed upon seeing the form of him: a sardonic self-directed bark when he realized the gravity of the situation and his terrible error. He’d apologized to Mordechai and asked him not to worry and did not give words to his anxiety. He did not need to. It manifested in his tone enough.

Mordechai, then, hadn’t offered verbal comfort but had crawled between Jonah’s legs to nose into his curls and lap at his cunt and pin Jonah down by the hips to keep him from bucking away from the excruciatingly intense contact. When he’d settled, panting like a man fleeing for his life, Mordechai licked him through his adjustment to the press of fingers inside him, both of them knowing that this was a first experience: Mordechai with a man of Jonah’s particular kind, and the new Mr. Magnus with _anyone._

Jonah remembers being covered by and split open on him, burying his whimpers into Mordechai’s firm shoulder, and Mordechai had not asked him to be quiet or done anything in particular to soothe him.

“Get it over with,” Jonah choked, and Mordechai obliged.

Mordechai wasn’t rough with him, but he couldn’t help ramming into Jonah’s core and that was hardly comfortable. When he’d withdrawn to jerk himself off over Jonah’s belly, half his length was dry. Jonah watched, fascinated, with all of it: the anatomy at work; Mordechai, unguarded; the taste of him when he dragged a finger though his release and smeared it on his tongue.

Jonah thanked him and pulled Mordechai down into a proper kiss—the first one of that evening.

His lips came away tasting of rust.

A month later, Jonah found himself on Mordechai’s doorstep with a trunk of his worldly possessions—the ones worth keeping, anyway. He was bitter and lost and, _yes,_ alone.

Fresh from killing someone’s daughter, Jonah later said. Over drinks and unrepentant. Unconcerned.

Mordechai fucked him like a man that night: his words. Jonah revelled in it; _delighted_ in it; anchored himself to the material world with fistfuls of pillow and let himself be washed away in the depth of everything that Mordechai gave. Filled up with the cleansing realization that he had no need of his old life and the joyful loss of it.

He had not belonged. He had never belonged.

And he knew that **this** , right here, he can take whenever he likes: seize it with his own hands and finally, **finally** be in control of his own life.

Jonah can choose his treatment and subject himself to pleasurable torture on _his_ terms, and know that with a word, all of it would stop. He can be talked down to and beaten and _used,_ like he is now, while being assured that they will continue to regard him as a peer once the evening’s over. Having to work to prove himself and prove that he _deserves_ a seat at the table and the ear of other influential men wears down on a person, and it’s no wonder, Smirke told him, that he should desire a break from all of that.

He likes direction, for having it means he doesn’t have to second-guess himself. Correct his speech and his bearing. Wonder if he’s doing the things correctly that others have been learning since boyhood.

He likes order. Rules and guidelines. He likes the world to make sense, even if that’s in the space of a room; the span of an evening. The collar goes on, and he knows what is expected of him.

And Jonah likes being the centre of attention. He feels important when he is. Jonah likes to make waves in defiance of the silence forced upon him since birth. He wants to be _unforgettable._

He wants to be the thing Mordechai thinks about in bed. He wants the image of his lips wrapped around Jonathan’s cock to be burned onto the inside of the man’s eyelids.

Mordechai pauses, pressed all the way into him and leans over to press his chest to Jonah’s back. Cups the curve of Jonah’s chest in hand; thumbs at the steel through his nipple. “You may come whenever you like,” he rumbles into the back of Jonah’s neck, and Jonah groans his gratitude.

When Mordechai begins again and Jonah bucks and shakes apart, he pulls off of Jonathan’s dick to bite his lip and brokenly whimper. Jonathan forbids him from hiding his face with a hand twined into Jonah’s hair, forcing him to be witnessed at his most helpless. Jonah shudders, rocks back, gasps. Opens his eyes and sees Jonathan staring with such a look of _awe_ that it warms his ribs, his cock.

He smiles. Just a little.

Mordechai practically has to hold him upright to keep fucking him through it and Jonah, by then, is lost. He makes a clumsily impassioned picture of sucking Jonathan off again, anchoring himself with a hand wrapped around the unnaturally hard base. Falling back on practice and habit, Jonah keeps it up until Mordechai’s hips stutter and slam into the bruises and it _throbs_ but it’s worth it, to be of use and feel Mordechai pulse and hear him moan, subdued; _demure_ almost, as he only ever does when he comes. Jonah considers himself privileged to hear it.

Shortly after Mordechai withdraws, inch by searing inch, Smirke eases the cleaned and well-lubricated plug back into him: “To stopper you back up,” in his incorrigible words. Jonah could laugh at the absurdity of it if his mouth weren’t busy—he’d pissed all over the floor, and _now_ Smirke wants to keep the mess off of it. Still, a part of Jonah does find charming the thought of carrying the evidence that he’d pleased the houseguests inside himself. He half-wishes Jonathan’s cock were real so he could do the same for him—or at least to get his mouth on him; taste him; lick and suck him down.

Jonah settles for touching him with a hand slid between harness and trousers, checking in with a look to make sure that Jonathan approves. He doesn’t make to take them off—an ordeal in itself without the harness involved—and feels around for the spot that punches the air out of his lungs. Jonah, grinning, rubs him with two circling fingers and jerks him off like the dick he wears is no different than any other. “Are you going to come for me?” He asks, ravenous and low. “Well, Mr. Fanshawe?”

And he does, writhing, and Jonah needs to hold him steady so he doesn’t chip any of his teeth on the wood, because Jonah is determined to keep him in his mouth as he finishes. Jonah waits until Jonathan has mostly stilled and is watching, then makes a show of working his throat in a long, pleased swallow. Licks up the underside to catch the spit that’s dribbled down. Suckles on the tip with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Once he’s got his breath and sense about him, Jonathan tells Jonah, “You’re welcome,” as much a question as a statement. But Jonah reassures him that he made the correct response by patting him on the thigh and starting to undo the buckles of the harness for him.

Somewhere in there, a thin quilt is draped over his shoulders. Robert is standing by him and he asks—or states—“Done for the evening?”

“I think so.” Jonah is unsteady on his feet when he gets up, but Robert is there with a hand at his elbow to support him and to guide him over to the settee where Jonah may lounge and luxuriate. Jonah wraps the quilt around himself, settling in, and graciously accepts the glass of brandy Robert gives him.

Mordechai dresses and Jonathan sets the harness aside and they both partake of drink again. Jonah isn’t much of a conversationalist—his rational mind is very far away, thoroughly banished by the treatment his body has endured—but he recognizes compliments when they are directed to him and shows his gratitude in what ways he can through his expression or little approving vocalizations. It is difficult for him to follow the flow of their chatter, but it hardly matters. They seem happy—or satisfied, at least. That’s the important part, Jonah thinks, and he is both those things and more. Tired is one of them, and once his drink is done he lies down on his side, curling into what little space there is upon the settee between Robert and Jonathan.

Robert offers his thigh as a pillow. He massages soothing patterns into Jonah’s scalp and listens to Jonah’s idle, incoherent mumbling.

Jonathan slides a hand under the blanket and pets over his flank. Every so often, his hand strays over to touch the welts, and he finds charm in Jonah’s discomfort.

Mordechai, across the room, stokes the fire.

And Jonah Magnus rests.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful Cat ([spiraldistortion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion)) for the beta read. This turned out so much better with your help!
> 
> And, finally, thanks to the Jonah server on discord. Your enthusiasm about these characters is a force of fucking nature. <3
> 
> Vincent (destinyllama) did some delicious [NSFW art](https://twitter.com/kinkshameyeti/status/1283931636304936961) for this fic! Thank you so much!


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